


Burn

by MostFacinorous



Series: Warmth [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Discussion of Traumatic Experiences, Emotional Manipulation, Fingerfucking, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Masochism, discussion of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's nightmares have robbed him of one of the joys of his life, one of the last safe places his mind had: the water. </p><p>Hannibal wants to give that back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

Burn

It began with the dreams. At first, he was dissolving into water, then stranded on it. Trying to breathe it in, choking on it. Drowning in it.

It got so that showering was an exercise in his strength of will. A test of his tolerance against what he knew was bullshit, but still felt like mental and emotional torture.  He hated it. Hated the shaking, the gasping. Hated constantly having to adapt to each new stain on his mind, each new way that each new case left him missing something, left him…

“Do you feel fractured?” Hannibal prompted, and Will’s head jerked up, from where he’d angled it downwards, his voice emerging in an uninflected monotone that left his chin nearly hitting his chest.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked out, harsher than he’d intended.

Will turned his head to the side, suddenly aware that he’d been staring straight into Hannibal’s eyes as he spoke. He clenched his jaw.

He’d expected things to change, somehow, after they slept together. But that didn’t seem to be the case. In fact, save for the occasional world shakingly lingering touch, Will would think he’d dreamt that, too.

Especially once the soreness faded and the bruises cleared. When there was no proof left, he began to doubt. He did have an over active imagination, and there was no reason for Hannibal to want him. He knew that, and he was honest with himself as much as possible, when he was conscious of being able to do so.

“You have said before,” Hannibal’s smooth voice cut through Will’s bout of self depreciation, “That you took peace in imagining your home as a boat. Do you no longer find solace in such a thought?”

Will shook his head slowly, trying to find the words.

“Boats for me are like… like a comfort food. You crave it when you’re in uncertain times. But then you realize that it’s been so long since you’ve had that… that mac ‘n cheese, or… that ratatouille, made the way you remember it, that you can only vaguely remember what’s comforting about it at all.”

Hannibal pursed his lips and nodded.

“Logically then what you need is to be reminded what feels safe about it. Yes? Perhaps a day trip?”

Will’s interest flared, but then his responsibilities caught up with him.

“I don’t know that I can be unavailable for that long. I feel like I am always on call with Jack, these days.”

Will hated that, too. Hated feeling like his life was only a temporary state, that he as a person existed only until he got the call and had to numb his mind to himself and become someone else. Become a monster. One after the other.

“If Jack does not want to risk another full shuddering breakdown on your part—and I can assure you he does not—then I think he can spare you for a single day."

“What if the Ripper chooses that day to start up again?” He wanted to go, but he felt like he had to play the devil’s advocate. The argument was weak, though, and he knew it. The Ripper had just ended a set of three victims. If he stuck to his established pattern, he wouldn’t be striking again for a month, at least, probably more. Not unless there was some head lining hot shot for him to mimic and mock.

And judging from Hannibal’s silence and the set tilt of his mouth, he knew it, too.

“I will call and make arrangements with Jack, and find us a suitable rental.” He spoke evenly, as unaffected as ever, and Will found himself, once again, grateful for Hannibal’s control. He didn’t leak emotions the way everyone else did. Probably why he was so calming to be around. Or at least part of it.

“Us?” Will prompted, his heart speeding just a little.

“You do not think I would leave you alone to face the subject of your latest terror, do you?” The words were reassuring, and slightly hurt, but the tone was so cavalier that were he any one else, Will could imagine that the question might have been punctuated with a ‘duh’.  He couldn’t help a flicker of amusement crossing his face at the thought.

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter.” He said, well aware that he was quieter when giving thanks, making the moment more intimate, and choosing the title instead of his first name to compensate.

Gratitude was one of the more difficult emotions for him to get right; he was far too cynical about it, though he didn’t want to be. Particularly not towards Hannibal.

“Of course Will. And…” Hannibal hesitated, then, and Will took notice, immediately growing agitated. Hannibal rarely spoke without giving the impression that he had weighed out his words before his lips even opened.

“Yes?” He prompted, anxious to have whatever it was out and in the air between them. Had he mis-stepped, maybe offended Hannibal by using his title, after…

“I only wish you would come sooner to me about such troubles.” It wasn’t Hannibal chiding him, it rang more like an admission, not from his psychologist, but from his… more than his psychologist.

Will looked away, embarrassed. He wanted to be able to communicate that easily, he did.

“I have a lot of problems.” He replied. “Sometimes it’s hard to prioritize. Besides, it’s not like you share any of yours with me.”

And anyway, how did one put into words that they were no longer sure if they had actually slept with the other party after being drugged, abducted, and abused? Even he knew that was an awkward conversation, well worth avoiding.

Especially since the follow up questions were things like, if they really had, why hadn’t Hannibal wanted him since? And that was something he couldn’t address. Not now. It would effectively drop him over the line from self deprecating to full blown feelings of inadequacy, depression, and self loathing.

“I am your therapist and your friend. You may tell me anything at any time, and at your own speed. But if you would like to hear of my worries—well, we haven’t spoken of Mason.”

Will’s head jerked upwards, his eyes nearly meeting Hannibal’s before he caught himself and averted them.

“What about him?” He hedged, unwilling to be the first to point out what had happened, just in case his understanding of events was skewed.

“Surely you have seen the news. He’s been in the hospital for weeks. He sliced off his face, overdosed, fed parts of him to his dogs… and you have not been questioned. Does that not strike you as odd?” Hannibal folded his hands around his knee, and Will followed the movement with his eyes.

“Because you didn’t tell them.” Will realized, somewhat in awe. “But what about physical evidence? I bled, I –“ He swallowed, remembering the feel of the vinyl forming itself around his cock. He must have had his fluids all over that house, his fingerprints… “I thought there was a full investigation, since he was claiming there was some outside influence involved in his actions?”

He hadn’t actually paid attention to the case, hadn’t thought it through; hadn’t thought how it might involve him. How it would look. How everyone would know…

“I saw to it that there was no trace of either of us at the scene—primarily so that he would not be able to gloat over it or blackmail us later, but…” Hannibal  looked calm, even as he went on. “Unfortunately that means I cannot give testament to how he was when I left him. Which means that his suing me, claiming that I was there, that it was my instruction that made him remove his face…” He trailed off and spread his hands, an expression of helplessness that made Will uncomfortable. Doctor Lecter wasn’t supposed to be helpless, not even in so composed a way as this.

“Say you were with me. I’ll… obviously I’ll corroborate.” Will answered immediately. He had a difficult time lying but he would do it for Hannibal, like he had done it for Abigail.

“Thank you William.” He inclined his head gratefully,  and Will felt a tiny swell of pride and accomplishment. He’d navigated yet another social interaction that, without Hannibal, probably would have made him incredibly uncomfortable. Plus he’d made Hannibal’s life that much easier. Which was nothing in the face of how good Hannibal was for him.

“We should talk about the rest of it, how it’s affected you and your feelings on the matter, of course.” Will felt panicked at the thought and his head whipped to look at the door, as though he was thinking of bolting for it. Hannibal raised his hand, movements calming.

 “But I won’t push you on it. Besides, I do not want to monopolize your time further now, when I have promised to steal you away for a full day, soon. When would you like to go out boating?”

Will was reeling at the smooth transition from one subject to the next, not a wholly uncommon feeling. He cleared his throat.

“I… uh, as soon as Jack can spare me, I guess?” Again, the elegant, restrained nod.

“I will call you when I have obtained permission and made plans. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course. Call whenever.” Will stood, and Doctor Lecter followed suit, buttoning his coat as he did, out of habit. Will envied him, just for a moment, for that grace for the put together elegance. It was clearly something he’d been born into, since even in illness, it hadn’t really lapsed. Elegance seemed to be as much a part of Hannibal Lecter as the air that he breathed.

He saw Will to the door and nearly closed it in his face when Will turned back at the last moment to offer him a somewhat shaky smile.

He felt like a boy who’d just asked his date to a dance and been told yes, not sure if he should—could kiss him—wanting to…

“I will speak to you soon.” He promised, making his voice compassionate, as though he thought Will needed the reassurance. It wasn’t until _after_ he said so, though, that Will felt conflicted.

He nodded and left before he could say or do something unbearably stupid, and tried to keep the thoughts from plaguing him on the way home.

A voice in his head, one that sounded suspiciously like his own, asked why Hannibal hadn’t spoken to him sooner—why he hadn’t brought up the rest of it.

 _Because of disappointment._ The voice answered itself, a tendril of doubt draping itself over Will’s head like a flowered wreath of despair. It was heavy, uncomfortably so, and it grew worse as the voices continued. _Because you were a mistake, and now you are a regret._

He stopped and picked up a fifty pound bag of dog food, enough to keep his little family fed for a little while.

At least them he felt like he was good enough for.

He adored dogs, especially the strays, he mutts, the lost and abandoned souls that he brought home. They weren’t demanding, didn’t expect much from him. They were friendly. They liked Alana; she, or anyone else, really, could take care of them if anything happened to him. They needed him, but they wouldn’t worry for him. It was uncomplicated. Not one of them had a pedigreed past to live up to.

And their emotions were simple, honest, and not in the least bit confusing.

-*-

He hung up on Jack Crawford, a grim parody of a smile on his face.

Jack hadn’t been pleased, as Will had predicted would be the case, but he was very good at being convincing. Mason was (unfortunately) living proof of that.

So of course dear Uncle Jack had agreed before the call had ended, albeit grudgingly.

Hannibal had thrown in the offer of dinner and the promise of a full progress report when he returned from their little day trip. Of course, he would have to find someone suitable to serve to Agent Crawford. So their day off would prove perfect for planning the Chesapeake Ripper’s next tableau. It was to be a day of reflection for the both of them, provided Will didn’t end up being too distracting.

Renting a boat turned out to be even easier than convincing Jack, and was surprisingly less expensive than anticipated. Not that he really cared; the FBI was theoretically funding this outing, and if they turned down the bill, he could certainly afford it.

He was careful in his selection of boat, sure to choose one with an older style Mercury outboard motor, like the one he had seen set aside at Will’s house on his last visit. There would be the touch of the familiar. But he overlooked the baseline fishing boat, with nothing but two plank seats—if they were to be out all day, he would be uncomfortable and Will would likely feel too used to it; he would be surprised if Will didn’t have a boat of that exact design stored somewhere. So he chose something a little classier, a little higher quality.  Something with an actual windshield, two front seats, padded and cushioned, and a back bench, equally comfortable. Something of a compromise between the world of Will’s make-do preferences, and his own lavish tastes, leaning a bit more to the former.

It turned out that the closest body of water with a decent boat rental was within Tygart LakeState Park—where Lawrence Wells’s installation had been found. Something a bit garish for his tastes, and not worth dwelling over long upon, save for its use in further unsteadying his already shaken patient.

With a quick glance at his clock, he saw that he had nearly an hour left before his next client, and decided to put off calling Will until he’d finished for the day. Let the man stew in his beautiful conflict for a bit. Instead, Hannibal opened his rolodex and found the card of someone he trusted very, very intimately: his tailor.

-*-

When Will answered his door on Thursday morning, he nearly— _nearly_ —laughed. Doctor Lecter had foregone his usual suits, with their wool and silk and other probably expensive fabrics that he was unsure of—cashmere was rabbit wool, wasn’t it?—and instead he’d somehow found a linen suit that fit him…. Perfectly. Which was why it was only nearly a laugh. The fabric wasn’t one that Will could honestly say he’d ever thought of as sexy—he mostly attributed it to mummies, actually—but. Wow.

It was… more casual than he was used to seeing Hannibal in, but no less formal in its cut—he had left the coat unbuttoned, and there was no tie, no vest beneath. Just a white dress shirt, the top few buttons left undone to give the most tantalizing glimpse of—

Will shook himself, and decided to make a mental effort not to catalogue how the trousers fit like they had been made just for him.

Knowing him, maybe they had been. None of which made up for the fact that he was planning to wear a suit to go boating. But then again, of course he was.

“Good morning, Will.” Hannibal’s voice was as crisp and cool as the air was. Will cleared his throat, averting his eyes and not bothering to even try to apologize or explain away his lapse in social skills. He’d found that, often, if he just ignored it, they would be forgotten soon enough. Usually to be replaced by his next faux pas.

“Did you want to—would you like some coffee? Or were you eager to get on the road?” Like that one maybe. He should have stocked up, bought some real food to offer Hannibal. Not that he could ever even sort of dream of comparing to the food Doctor Lecter prepared for him.

“I have some coffee in a thermos in the car, actually… but if you have yet to have some, then by all means, I would love to come inside.” He was so smooth, so charming—what could he possibly see as worthwhile in—

Will quashed those thoughts where they were. Hannibal was here, they were going out boating, he was going to spend the day with him, and he was going to get over his dumb fear of the water, all at the same time.

“No. No I’m good. Let me just round the dogs up. One second.” He left Hannibal leaning against his car in the drive way, and began doing the undignified crouch run that herding animals always seemed to include, well aware of how much of an idiot he must look like, and hoping that Hannibal wasn’t having second thoughts.

He got the pups all squared away and made sure their water dishes were filled, then climbed into Hannibal’s car, feeling just as out of place in its luxury interior as he did in Hannibal’s house… maybe more so, with this being a much more enclosed space, and no where to look that didn’t speak of the class and style and cost… save out the window. And he didn’t want to look petulant.

“We do have a bit of a drive, Will, so if you need anything, do not hesitate to say.”

Will perked up at that.

“I have to admit, I kinda wondered where you planned to go boating. We aren’t driving towards the Chesapeake Bay.”

“No.” Hannibal found the need to answer, even though that hadn’t been a question. “I didn’t want to expose you to too large of a body of water, since you have spoken of your current discomfort with the scenario. I thought it better to start with a smaller lake, something none-too-deep and where you can keep a bank in sight if you need to.”

He spoke gently, and Will felt a swell of gratitude for his foresight.

“You really thought this out, didn’t you?” He knew he sounded vaguely awestruck, but it was true—he wouldn’t have thought that hard about it.

“I wanted to be sure that you would be able to feel as secure as possible, Will. I wouldn’t want you to lose all the history that you have spoken of, your love of watercraft and fishing has always seemed to be the happiest of memories you have shared with me.”

He smiled a little shyly at the doctor.

“Well, I can always use a few new happy memories to offset… recent events.” He wasn’t going to talk about what that entailed, but he would try his somewhat clumsy hand at flirting.

Hannibal gave him an approving look, and a partial smile that looked particularly rakish on his features.

“With luck, today will yield you some. The adventure will be yours and mine today.” Will nearly frowned at that—deflecting. He was treating him like something he had to avoid, when he hadn’t before. What had changed? Or was he… the idea that Will was on the (probably very short) list of Hannibal Lecter’s regrets resurfaced in his mind, and he averted his eyes, lest Hannibal see it swimming across them.

Will looked out the window, knowing his face betrayed his thoughts all too easily. Hannibal didn’t deserve to feel bad because of something he had started, something he had pushed for… Hannibal had said he felt the same, that what they did wasn’t an act of pity. But… It was hard not to think that he’d just been saying it for Will’s benefit. That he’d done what Will wanted, what he needed just then. And that left Will feeling greedy for wanting more, even though he knew he had no right to ask for it.

A small wave of resentment rose in him for that, and then quickly in its wake followed more guilt.

“Will?” Hannibal questioned, and Will hummed noncommittally. “Is something the matter?”

“Are you asking as my therapist, my friend, or--” he bit the last two words off, refusing to say them for how ridiculous they felt on his tongue.

“Or what?” Hannibal asked, of course latching onto his stumble.

“Or whatever.” He covered quickly, going into defensive mode.

“I care about you, regardless of the title you choose to put me under at any given time.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to smile, again reminded that he couldn’t—shouldn’t be asking for more. Hannibal didn’t owe him anything. If there was a debt, it was the other way around.

“You haven’t answered my question Will. Is something the matter? What do you see?” Hannibal’s voice was soothing, the way it always was, and though he was driving, he still took the time to look over, to check on Will. He didn’t know if he appreciated that or not.

He settled on ‘not’ and fixed Hannibal with a stare that he held until he was sure it had been seen, then he looked down into his lap.

“I haven’t seen anything. It’s just early, my mind is still waking up.” It felt like the lame excuse that it was, and he nearly sighed in annoyance at himself.

Hannibal just nodded, and lifted the thermos to hand it to him.

“This is your coffee, though, you said. Right?”

“I do not mind sharing. And you have told me how much you enjoyed it in the past, so I brought more than I usually drink.” He was so level, so calm about everything, so accepting and thoughtful. And again, thinking ahead.

“How do you remember every detail of everything I ever tell you? I mean.” He was aware that came out awkwardly. He covered for it while he sipped from Hannibal’s thermos, eyes nearly slipping closed with delight, because Hannibal’s coffee really was the best. He let the flavor fade slowly out of his mouth, then shook his head.

“You make the best coffee. You’re spoiling me for gas station brews forever.”

“I should hope so.” Hannibal responded, the briefest twitch of a smile on his lips. “And as for remembering things, it’s important that I do. I have patients who have anxieties based in abandonment, and they feel abandoned when they aren’t heard, or understood. Asking them to repeat something they know they have already told me-- or asking them to re-explain something-- can make them feel that I am not giving them the attention they are due, that I am abandoning them when they hope to use me as a crutch to pull themselves out of the anxious mire in their minds. I wouldn’t do that to a patient. And even those less anxious—they pay for my time. It is the least I can do to give them my undivided attention, and make the best use of their time as possible.”

Will was quiet for a minute, digesting that and sipping at the coffee.

Hannibal honed his mind, and made a concentrated, conscious effort to learn about people, to listen to them and retain everything, out of care.

“Some people would take notes.” He responded, thinking aloud.

“Notes you have to flip through, they take up space. They can be lost, or compromised. Suppose someone like Freddie Lounds were to break into my office… can you imagine the damage that would come from the mere existence of such notes?”

Will froze, imagining Freddie reading through all of the things he had ever told Hannibal.

“Besides,” Hannibal continued, “Having a notebook or a clipboard only puts something else between myself and the client. Creates closed body language. Makes it feel like I think the paper is of more importance than them. Again, they deserve my undivided attention.”

“I would never be able to remember it all, even if I could care that much about the people I was listening to.”

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, he responded.

“You managed to memorize words in a language you do not speak, simply because you heard me say them in a fever dream.”

Hannibal sounded oddly vulnerable there, and it just reminded him of when he had been ill.

“That was different. You’re…” He tapered off, unsure how to end it. “Anyway, that’s one thing, one time. You remember everything. Everything anyone has ever told you.”

“Our minds are very different, but each person’s is. My memory is strong, my sense of smell. You have empathy and imagination beyond the boundaries of what most are even capable of understanding. Individual strengths help form individual perceptions, which in turn advise understandings, reactions—personalities. The marvels of humanity—part of the reason I was driven to turn to psychiatry.”

“That makes sense. I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way before. Well, I mean, I have, obviously. Have to, for work, but. I’ve mostly thought about it in terms of what’s wrong with a person, a specific person, as opposed to how it shapes people in general. That sounds dumb.” He shrugged, self conscious.

“That sounds like you have a narrow awareness. Which comes from being unsociable. I’m grateful you’ve allowed me to help change that.” Hannibal spoke as smoothly as he drove, navigating the roads just as well as he did a conversation.

“The awareness or the social factor?” He asked wryly.

“Either. Both.”

Will smiled and looked back out his window, though now it wasn’t because of moodiness, or to hide anything. He didn’t know why he’d been upset. This was perfect.

Hannibal pulled into what looked like the parking lot for a cheap motel. Squat, long buildings ran along one side in a straight line, and Will faintly registered a feeling of shock at this turn of events.

“Uh, is there some change of plan I should know about?” At least he didn’t think Doctor Lecter was going to drug and whip him, but… he still didn’t like surprises. And if he wanted to have sex with him, there was no reason to come so far out of the way; they both had houses, there were hotels in Baltimore… he felt a little like he was a shameful thing, something that Hannibal wanted to hide, this way. But he also knew that he wouldn’t say no, that he had craved that sort of intimacy, that kind of touch, since the last time Hannibal had offered it to him. He was a little ashamed about what that said about him.

“This is the office for the marina. I have to retrieve the keys and sign some paperwork. It should take only a moment, but you are welcome to come in as well, if you like, of course.”

He felt a hot flush of shame for his assumption and unbuckled wordlessly, using the motion of climbing out of the car to help hide the blush he knew was sitting low on his cheeks.

“What kind of boat did you get?” He asked, and Hannibal nodded towards the office.

“I am sure they will have photos, but I got a motor boat. One with an older outboard motor from Mercury; the kind you had in your house, last time I was there, if memory serves, though of a larger model. And with seats and a windshield and space to chill and store the meal I’ve brought.” He sounded satisfied, not at all worried that Will would object.

He didn’t, of course. How could he? Even if it was a higher class of boat than he was used to, it was still a day on a boat, something he hadn’t had in a while, and with Hannibal to boot. He couldn’t imagine being happier.

Provided he didn’t start hallucinating his nightmares.

Or say something completely stupid and needy.

“Fancy.” He commented, and held the door open, letting Hannibal go in first. The older woman working reception smiled at them as the chimes sounded, and he gave her an answering grin, though his was crooked and his eyes were fixed on the large gaudy gold earring to the left of her face. He let them travel quickly across her desk, and his gaze fell on the nametag on the top of the desk, proclaiming that she was Dolores, and boasting a smiling faced sunshine peering out from behind a cloud.

“How can I help you boys?” She asked, her attention clearly more on Hannibal. Will couldn’t blame her—he cut quite an image in his linen suit and with his hair so tidy. He was sure she was only used to seeing people who looked like Will: scruffy, poorly dressed, probably unshaven, and wearing fishing vests.

“I have a boat on reserve for today, under the name of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, if you please.”

“Allllright!” she trilled, rummaging through a stack of papers at the top of her bin. She shuffled a couple and then lifted theirs, looking disproportionately victorious.

“Here we are—oh you got a nice one. My husband and I went out in this one for our anniversary last month—so romantic. He’s got good taste.” That last was directed at Will, who felt himself starting to flush again, and quickly shifted his eyes away, turning to look out the window, back out at the parking lot they had just come in from.

“I understand you need my signature, and to run my card?” Hannibal asked, stepping forward to pull her attention back to him. Will felt grateful, once again, for Hannibal’s perceptive nature and his willingness to act as a buffer between Will and the rest of the world. He wondered if the woman had been implying that she thought they were a couple—though he couldn’t imagine why she would. If it had been Hannibal and Mack, maybe… he just didn’t fit in this equation. He wondered, distantly, what had happened to the blazer that he had bought that day. He wished he’d had it now, so that he could have worn it. Even with his khakis, that at least would have made him look a little less… Louisiana.

He had been largely ignoring what had been going on behind him, letting Hannibal handle things. He seemed to know what he was doing. It would be a different matter, Will was sure, once they were out on the lake. He drowned out Dolores rambling on about the lack of restricted areas, wake rules, speed zones, or horsepower limits on the lake.

He startled a bit when Hannibal placed a gentle hand on his elbow.

“Shall we?” He asked softly, and Will threw a last glance at Dolores, narrowly avoiding cringing as she waved goodbye.

“Yeah.” He agreed, letting Hannibal lead him out.

-*-

The boat was exactly as he’d wanted, which was a pleasant surprise. He’d somewhat expected to find that they had misrepresented it and it would be rotting at dock. Which would have been quite rude. He wouldn’t have eaten Dolores, just the same; the woman had large, watery brown eyes and smelled of decaying fruit, just diabetes, but it would affect the flavor of the meat just the same. Make it somewhat harder to season. Not that he didn’t like a challenge. But he wouldn’t have been able to display her anyway; Will had met her, too.

Getting the boat moving he left solely up to Will. The man was intimately familiar with the workings of it, even if he did hesitate. Even if he did freeze up a bit at the sight of the water lapping against the hull.  And Hannibal could have taken over. He’d been on his fair share of motor boating adventures, even if he did prefer sails to the sound of a gas engine. But it was more entertaining to see what Will would do.

It didn’t take any coaxing to get him aboard, which Hannibal was a disappointed about. He felt there would have been opportunities to remind him of just who keeps him afloat if that had been the case, but perhaps later.

He had been a bit surprised when Will immediately kicked off his shoes and peeled his vest and shirt off, until he was bare-chested in his jeans. Surprised, but not offended; this was a situation where that was acceptable, and he enjoyed the option of letting his eyes dance down Will’s chest, lightly haired and lightly defined.  No issue there.

In fact, the first sign of trouble came when Will saw the name of the lake they were on, written on a sign.

“LakeTygart?” He almost couldn’t be heard over the motor of the boat, but then he stopped accelerating and turned to Hannibal, a wounded look on his face.

“Yes. I know of its connection to your case, and I apologize. But as I said, I wanted to give you a contained body of water, and besides… we are on the opposite side of the dam than your crime scene. I had hoped that would be far enough not to give you any difficulties. Was I mistaken?”

“No. No, you… you planned for everything, didn’t you?” Hannibal studies how Will’s face transitioned from looking lost to the look of patented adoration that lately had been reserved only for when he looked at Hannibal. He felt a stirring of self satisfied smugness welling within him, and he bowed his head, feigning humility.

“Well I haven’t planned for the boat over turning. So if we could perhaps avoid that, then… yes. I think I have. I understand it is impossible to give you a perfectly controlled environment, but I have done my best to safe guard you. As you noted, it is one of my mind’s particular specialties.”

“Well, I’m grateful for it. Today is a gorgeous day for this—I should have thought ahead and brought fishing gear. I bet this is a good place for walleyes. Looks like it, any way.”

“There is tackle of the generic sort under the rear seats, and worms in the cooler, if that is of interest to you. How do you know what kind of fish would dwell here?” He enquired. He’d done his research; Will was right, of course, but he wanted to let the man feel proud of that.

“Oh, I don’t. It’s just, well, they like clear water, with rocky drop offs. That’s everything we’re going over right now. And they tend to like water around 70 degrees. We’ve had a warm snap, but even so, some of the deeper spots should be around there… we could just find a place that feels about right, and drop a line, see what happens.”

“If you like.” He said, nodding.

“Well, what about what you’d like?” Will was pushing back, and Hannibal appreciated the thought behind it.

“This is a day for you. I have no agenda, other than seeing you through it, so that you will have a safe place to go in your head, the next time life becomes too much. It is important, and I worry about you enough when you have a mental haven.” He spoke plainly, though not entirely truthfully. He knew the two were often mistaken for one another, however, and it seemed that Will was exactly the sort to make that mistake. He looked both mollified and a little impressed, perhaps grateful. Good. If nothing else, Hannibal would have a day to observe Will in a habitat he felt comfortable in, and hopefully cause himself to be equated with that safe place that he had spoken of.

“Have you ever gone fishing before, Doctor?” Will asked, his voice carrying over the wind in ways that he never did in a room. He never seemed to be one to speak loudly, really, and Hannibal had somewhat suspected he would be unable to. But here he was, perfectly at home, not exactly yelling, but pitching his voice to be heard. Just another tidbit to file away about Will Graham.

“I have been, yes. It has been a rather long time, however, and I suspect my last teacher was a less patient man than you.”

By that, of course, he meant that he had eaten the man after he had disturbed several women on a charity cruise that Hannibal had gone on. The man had been a fisher, the women sunbathers, and when the man had grown bored, he’d attempted to bait himself for a different sort of haul. One that involved offending every person on that deck: male, female, clothed or no. He’d ‘caught’ him with his own fishing line, and used it to dangle his body over the aft of the ship.

“I suppose that I have to be somewhat patient, considering what I do. I teach people who don’t necessarily understand me right away, and I catch people who aren’t always the easiest to find.”

“Follow me,” Hannibal said, amusement bubbling up inside of him. “And I will make you fishers of men.”

Will let out an incredulous laugh, which peaked and ebbed with the same sharpness as the choppy waves on the face of the lake.

“Are you Jesus now, then?” He asked, a little of his southern accent pulling through at the name of Jesus.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t presume. Besides, you were already a fisher of men long before I knew you.” He returned, his words softer to make Will more mindful of his volume, though such mindfulness was hardly necessary. There was no one but them to hear, and though the wind was blowing, he knew that his words had met Will’s ears, for his friend bowed his head in an acquiescing nod.

He looked almost pleased at the title.

“I hadn’t really ever thought of it like that before, either.”

“Were you not a religious family, growing up?” Hannibal asked, using the handy segue.

Will shook his head no.

“We went to church, sure, but usually only when my dad remembered. There were so many other things to do… it wasn’t weekly, or with any sort of regularity. I’d just be woken up early some Sundays, and told to put on my church clothes, and we’d go. So I always felt a little like an outsider, looking in on a religion.”

“Do you feel that you have missed something, without it?”

“You mean am I envious of people with religion? Nah. I mean. It works for them, and that’s good. I don’t hold it against them. But my dad, he used to be religious. He stayed religious right up until my mom died. My grandmother once told me that he spent two days in a chapel, praying for her life, near the end. But nothing came of it. So I guess he felt abandoned. And he just… gave up. Mostly.” Will didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with the subject, another small disappointment.

“And yourself, did you ever feel the need to try religion?” He pressed, more out of curiosity now than anything. He wondered what sort of things Will might have divined with his empathetic tendencies, in a house of God.

“I never got much of a taste for it. It always felt to me like those who prayed the hardest, those who believed the loudest, were those who were in it for something. They needed help or they wanted fame or… whatever. It was never about religion for religion’s sake. It seemed greedy.”

“Oh, now.. surely they were not all looking for material gain from their beliefs.” He felt the need to chastise, though he was also not overly religious. It was more fun to play the devil’s advocate, even when in this case the ‘devil’ was the very organization built to fend him off.

“No, not all of them. There were people using it as a crutch, too, people who needed God the way a junkie needs that next hit. They needed human interaction and used the sense of community that churches offered, and they needed to believe that good things were rewards sent just for them, and that bad things were happening for a reason, outside of their understanding. They needed to feel like they had a safety net. I just… I guess I could never trust the net if I couldn’t see where the ties were. If that makes sense.”

“You have a lot of problems with trust, Will. It does not surprise me that your faith shares that quality of suspicion and cynicism.” He said it gently, as though remarking on the weather rather than telling the man that he tended to push people and ideologies away.

Will hand waved it off.

“The peculiarities of my mind.” He said, turning the key to let the engine rest while they drifted on mostly calm waters. Will stood, advancing towards Hannibal where he sat on the middle seat of the boat. “What about you, Doctor Lecter? Are you a church on Sunday sort of man?” He passed him by and retrieved the fishing supplies that Hannibal had been informed were at the rear of their little vessel.

“Sadly no. Like your father, I had a prayer that went unanswered, despite the strength of it, and like Santa Clause, I determined that there was no higher power, or he would have answered me.” The words, he knew, were melodramatic and all but challenged Will to ask for details. He had already cemented himself in Will’s mind as a sturdy foundation, then as a human being capable of vulnerability, then as a savior of sorts. Now, he would play into Will’s love of mystery, of a challenge. He would create in him an urge to learn more about Hannibal… which he would translate as interest, maybe even obsession, and hopefully be mistaken for love.

He wasn’t far from it now, but if Will could convince himself that he was in love with Hannibal, he knew that he would be safe from most anything that could happen. Will was very loyal to those he was close to, and very protective of them. In the event he was ever caught, with Will wrapped around his finger, he would certainly find himself home free in short order. And Hannibal was good at seeing the big picture.  

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Will murmured politely, holding his voice at the same level that Hannibal had spoken at.  

“Nothing for you to apologize for.” He dismissed the notion. He turned his focus to Will’s hands, working the line of the pole with deft, skilled fingers, as though he’d been doing it since childhood. Which probably he had.

He watched in silence while Will checked all of the equipment and made small noises of approval and disapproval in turns. Hannibal considered asking about the sources of Will’s disdain, but being unable to do anything about it, he didn’t want to call attention to it any further than necessary.

After a few minutes, Will looked up, the rod draped across his lap.

He looked every bit like a painting of Americana, his large eyes and tousled hair, his worn jeans and his bare feet, his shoulders already pinkening under the sun… the boat seemed out of place, but Hannibal preserved it in the image just the same, memorizing every line of this moment just as Will began to speak.

“Would you mind passing me those worms, Doctor Lecter?” He asked.

Hannibal gave him a secretive little smile and did as he was asked.

He allowed their fingers to brush and watched the shiver that Will tried to disguise.

“Please, Will. Hannibal. We are not in my office, and there are none to hear. Unless you are more comfortable with the distance of formality between us.” As if the bounds of propriety had not already been breached in every way humanly possible. He withdrew his hand and their touch, making Will scramble not to drop the cup and spread the worms over the deck. He managed, but only just.

“N-no. Sorry, Hannibal it is then.” Hannibal tipped his head in acknowledgement of the concession, and sat back to watch Will at work.

Once the line was cast, Will sat back, relaxing into his seat. He was calm, as though just the process was meditative for him.

“So your dreams, your night terrors, about water. Tell me about them.”

Will startled so badly that Hannibal wondered for a moment if he had forgotten that he wasn’t alone. He made a note to ask later if Will had ever taken Alana out fishing—it seemed a somewhat intimate thing for him.

“I… they aren’t anything special. Just drowning, dissolving, being adrift and lost…”

“What’s special about them is that they come from you, who are so intimately familiar with the water… you seem far more at home here than you do on land.”

Will made a vague humming noise, not really agreeing or disagreeing. His eyes had gone unfocused and he was withdrawing, perhaps reliving one of those nightmares. Hannibal waited and watched.

“They’re confusing, Doct—Hannibal. Disorienting. I just feel like everything is sliding out from under me, and I’m sliding into nothing.”

“You must find something to ground yourself to, Will. Find something or someone that makes you feel stable, makes you feel present, and cling to it.” Hannibal was leading Will now, and he gestured at the fishing pole as though implying that that was a possible answer, when he felt sure they both knew the truth.

“I already have.” The words were soft and tinged with a quiet intensity. Will stared into Hannibal’s face when he said this, and Hannibal felt a smile pull at the edges of his lips. Of course he had.

But the moment was destroyed when a tug on the line tugged Will’s attention away. Hannibal tried not to mind; the fish would pay for its interruption shortly.

-*-

The fish was small, hardly worth the bother, but it gave him a good excuse to figure out his feelings, to tamp them down into something more manageable. Hannibal was here as a friend, as a therapist… every time Will got the urge to ask for more, or tell Hannibal how much difference he made to him, he had to fight to remember that any of these things was more than enough for him to be given a transfer, to lose Hannibal outright.

He looked up and spotted movement on the bank opposite them. It took a moment’s squinting to realize that it was a stag, head lowered to drink from the water. As though it could feel his gaze, the creature raised its head and met his eyes, and Will had to stare to be sure that it was really there, that it was real.

He looked away and back to Hannibal, before realizing that he had been watching him for who knew how long, while Will was consumed by his thoughts.

He felt his face color at the realization, and turned to look at Hannibal more fully, give him a taste of his own medicine.

The breeze was tossing Hannibal’s hair low into his eyes, and Will realized that he didn’t have any product in it. He must have just done his styling by wet combing it that morning, perhaps in preparation for coming out here today. Will wanted to touch it, relived the feel of the strands under his fingers, sweat soaked and mussed by fervor and passion. He looked younger this way, less inhibited, though he’d never really thought of Hannibal as being that. He certainly hadn’t been in bed.

As though reading his mind—or maybe his traitorous eyes—Hannibal spoke.

“Would you like to talk about what happened after I took you from Mason’s house, Will?”

How could he look so in control, so composed, his legs crossed in a study of casual carelessness, the lines of his suit still stiff and sharp? Other than the revisions made for the setting, he could be just at the office, like any other day. How could he do that—look so put together while Will felt like he was falling apart?

“Would I like to? Not really, no.” But there were no handy exits to run out of, no chance of having Jack call him to check out a body. He fantasized, for the space of a minute, about jumping overboard and swimming away, but that was juvenile, impractical, and besides, even in his head, the idea of touching the water actually gave him a panicked pause.

“I won’t push you on it, if you truly do not want to. I just wanted to be sure I didn’t…” Hannibal trailed off, and this time it was him who looked away, who looked lost, and perhaps a little… _ashamed_. Those terrible voices in his head replied. And all of a sudden, he had had enough.

“Didn’t what?” Will’s voice was sharp. “Didn’t call me afterwards? Didn’t check to see how I was healing? Didn’t bring it up for weeks? Didn’t give the impression that I’d been abandoned or that you were ashamed. Because I want you to be sure that, yeah, actually, _you did_.”

Hannibal stared at him, and he then he stood abruptly, coming towards Will.

“Will, I am sorry—I thought you were upset with me, thought you felt that I had taken advantage or…” He didn’t get to speak any further, because he was close enough to touch, and he tried to hug Will to him. But all Will knew was how he had melted into Hannibal’s arms before, how all the feelings of being hurt and scared had seeped out of him… And how he hated that. He didn’t want to absorb Hannibal’s calmness. He wanted to feel, as himself, wanted to be allowed to be angry and betrayed first.

So he moved out from in front of him, pushed Hannibal aside.

And watched in horror as the other man misstepped and hit the edge of the boat, then hit the water.

Will cursed and barely took the second to drop his phone on the floor of the boat before diving in after Hannibal, certain he must have hit his head on the way in.

The water was cold. It was still early in the year, though spring had started blossoming, and the water may have been clear to look down into, but it was less clear when it was surging around you, and you were beginning to feel the anxiety of your nightmares.

Will felt like a monster, felt sure that with as rocky and shallow as some of the areas they were near were, he may very well have killed Hannibal. He’d never asked if he knew how to swim. He tried to focus on that, on finding him, on saving him, if need be, but the blackness was rushing towards him, and he felt disoriented. He tried to gasp in air, tried to remember what he was supposed to be saying. _My name is Will Graham. I am in_ _Lake_ _Tygart_ _. I killed the man I…_ but he breathed in water instead and the burn inside of him made him thrash harder until he felt hands on him, and an arm around him.

He was pushed against the side of the boat, his hands lifted to wrap around the railing. He held on, even though the loss of contact made him feel like he was drowning all over again, until he felt the boat tip towards him, followed by hands on his wrists, pulling him up.

He didn’t know how he did it, maybe Will blacked out for a moment, because Hannibal would have to be far stronger than he had ever shown himself to be in order to lift Will so easily over the side of the railing.

But when Will came to, he was cradled in Hannibal’s lap, legs thrown sideways over one of Hannibal’s thighs, while his other leg propped Will up and his hands checked his pulse and breathing.

“Will, come back to me Will.” That unruffleable voice held panic in it, muted and quiet, but there just the same.

“Hannibal, I’m sorry.” As the first thing out of his mouth, it was watery, rough and choked.

“No, Will, I’m sorry. I had no idea I had let you down so terribly. It was never my intent.” He spoke softly and held Will all the tighter to his chest, as though he was afraid that Will would push him away again,  or jump back in the water to escape him.

“Should have known you swam better than I do.” Will muttered, burying his face into Hannibal’s wet lapel.

“Is that why you came in after me?” Hannibal’s voice was rich with relief and amusement.

Will shrugged, embarrassed.

“Even in the midst of telling me how much I had failed you, your first instinct was to protect me.” Hannibal murmured, sounding like he was marveling over the thought. “Even holding all of that inside of you for weeks now, you agreed to come with me here. Why?”

Will didn’t know what to say. Because he only felt those things because he thought about it all the time? Because…

“Because I thought… if you still don’t want me, if it was a mistake or a regret… I don’t want to lose you as a friend.” He hoped Hannibal could hear him. He didn’t want to repeat it. It hurt too much to say. And he was afraid that in even admitting it would make it self fulfilling.

The breeze kicked back up, and Will shivered, only for Hannibal to wrap himself around him, shielding him as best as he could from the chill.

“I thought I was your regret. You have never been mine.” Hannibal spoke, and he seemed to be doing that thing again, where he worked to keep his emotions contained. Will loved it. Loved how Hannibal fought not to influence him, in a world of people who, the second they understood the way his mind grasped onto emotions, often tried to use it to their advantage.

“Can we just... not be regretful? I mean. If you don’t want… it can be a one time thing. I just. I just need to know.” Will felt like he was grabbing at straws, trying to halt a downward slide.

“Is that what you want, Will?” Hannibal sounded disappointed, but withdrawn, like he was trying not to show it.

“I… want you to keep the promises you made, that night.” He felt his blood diverting as he remembered what those promises were. He looked up into Hannibal’s face, looking for a reaction.

There was a shift there. He could see when Hannibal’s eyes dilated a bit, when his grasp on Will changed a little.

“The ones where I offered to hurt you in ways that you could enjoy thoroughly?” Hannibal asked, and suddenly his voice was assured, a smooth, dark slide up Will’s spine, so overwhelming that all he could do was nod mutely.

“I think that can be arranged.” Hannibal concluded, and Will arched up to press his lips to Hannibal’s. He felt so warm, and Will so clammy. Neither of them rushed it, the water dripping from Will’s hair creating a slide between them that would have been messy if it wasn’t so mingled with longing and relief.

Will pulled back, and reached for his dry shirt, using it to wipe Hannibal’s face with before rubbing it over his hair.

“Why did you come in after me, if you cannot swim?” Hannibal asked. “Why not just throw a life preserver?” Will grimaced.

“I can usually swim just fine, but… between—I thought maybe I killed you, and then my nightmares… I think I had a panic attack.”

Hannibal made a little moue with his lips and clucked his tongue.

“So it seems I have failed you in yet another count, now… I’m sure your fear of the water won’t be helped by having nearly drowned in it.” Hannibal sighed, clearly annoyed with his perceived failings.

“Yeah, but maybe if I get lucky, you’ll show up in my dreams to save me. You keep doing that, you know?” He felt dumb saying it, but it was worth mentioning. This wasn’t the first time he had felt like he owed his life to the Doctor.

“What is that? Saving you, or showing up in your dreams?”

“So smooth, Hannibal.” Will threw back. “The former, actually. I’m not always a hopeless teenaged girl.”

“There is no shame in what your subconscious serves you, Will. I am unashamed to say that you have been the subject of my dreams, in the past.”

He was a little speechless at that. It wasn’t until the fishing line began unreeling rapidly that he had any idea of how long they had been sitting like that, and he scrambled to his feet, embarrassed momentarily until reeling in the fish served as enough of a distraction to counteract it.

“How do you prepare your catches?” Hannibal asked, suddenly next to Will without his having seen or heard him move. It could have been that he was absorbed in what he was doing—or that Hannibal was just very good at catching him off his guard.

“Maybe if we head back early enough, you can stay for dinner, and I can show you.” He regretted the words nearly as soon as they were out of his mouth. There was no way that Hannibal would be impressed with whatever fare Will managed, what with his fancy dinner parties and dishes that even Will, growing up around Creoles and Cubans alike, couldn’t pronounce.

“I would like that.” Hannibal said, rubbing a careful hand across the back of Will’s shoulders. Will shuddered at the touch.

“You’re burned.” He remarked casually. Will shivered again, as Hannibal began pressing his fingers into the red skin on his back, no doubt drawing in the white marks left by the pressure of his fingers.

“Guess I’ll have to have you rub some burn cream on me, then, if you don’t mind, later.” He said, carefully backing the hook out of the fish’s mouth.

He nearly dropped the damn thing, though, when instead of a verbal answer, he felt Hannibal agree with an open mouthed kiss at the juncture of neck and shoulder, which quickly became a bite. Will loosed a moan of approval.

“If you think that fish will be enough, perhaps we could head back now.” Hannibal suggested, and Will found himself agreeing before even weighing the thing.

He hadn’t paid attention to the regulations of the lake—his license should be fine here, he fished in West Virginia on occasion, anyway, but he had no idea what the weight limit was on catch and release rules. Still, he reasoned if there was a fine he could probably manage it. It wasn’t as though he was spending his money on anything extravagant.

So he turned the boat back, and hoped Hannibal felt that his money hadn’t gone to waste, despite their little soaking mishap.

-*-

Will slept on the ride home, his forehead pressed against the car window, soaking the cool from the glass, Hannibal was sure.

Good Will, sweet Will. In so far over his head, were he less intelligent, less feisty and loyal and useful, Hannibal would feel sorry for him. But he was also trusting, naïve, and enchanting. He had uses for a man like that, a man like this one.

So he took Will back to his home, and shook him awake once the car was parked in the none-too-well cared for drive.

He would teach him to appreciate some of the better things, as he already had begun with his tendency to bring him good food and good coffee. Clothing would follow, then décor… until Will realized that everything he desired was everything Hannibal had. It would be a process, but a thoroughly enjoyable one.

He ran his hand across Will’s forehead, feeling the marked difference in temperature between one side and the other.

He wondered again how soon he should ‘discern’ the true culprit behind Will’s lost time and nighttime activities, his headaches and fevers and shakes. But he liked Will as he was, off balance and leaning into his touch, looking for help, looking for steadiness.

“Will? We’re here. Come, we should go inside. Your dogs can smell you and they wonder what is delaying you.”

Will smiled sleepily at Hannibal and shuffled in his seat while Hannibal withdrew his hand. He got the belt undone and stood, stretching and moving to rub his neck before freezing and frowning.

“I imagine your skin feels tight from your burn?” Hannibal asked, certain that was the case. He could smell the lake clinging to them, but also the heat rising from Will’s back, as well as the sweet warmth from his head.

“Yeah, should have left my shirt on, or brought sunblock. My mistake.” Will shrugged, biting his lip when that action, too, aggravated everything.

“Well, you get the door and greet your pack. I’ll bring in the fish.”

Will threw him a last parting smile and did as he’d bade him.

He wondered how long it would be until Will settled in, grew comfortable and confident with their relationship, and went back to his stubborn side, questioning and bucking against Hannibal’s suggestions. He wouldn’t say he preferred it, but the occasional challenge was amusing to disarm. His tools had changed slightly though, and he wondered how that might affect the effects of his words. He could hardly wait to find out.

Hannibal lifted the cooler out of the back of his car, and followed Will in, idly patting a snaggle-toothed small dog that made a point of circling his ankles and begging for attention.

He put the fish on the counter and frowned when he did not immediately see Will. But the house was not large. He moved down the hallway and came to rest in the doorway of Will’s bedroom, where the man was pulling off his shirt again, not yet having realized that his atrocious vest had been conveniently ‘lost’ overboard this afternoon.

“Do you have aloe or something of the like that I might put on that for you? It does look angry.” Will turned, obviously surprised that he had followed him, and perhaps slightly defensive. Part of Will, the part of him that dated back to their ancestors on the plains, knew that Hannibal was dangerous.  The rest of him was telling that part off, though, and the dichotomy in his head was interesting to watch as it crossed his face.

“No. But I need a few things for dinner, too… So maybe we could hit a store?”

“Alternately, you are more than welcome to gather what supplies you need from here, and use my kitchen for your preparations… and I will use my supplies, which are doubtless better than any store products, on your back.”

Will laughed, the sound soft and a little rusty, like he didn’t do it often.

“It’s just a sunburn.” He sounded dismissive. Hannibal felt his lips curve into an answering smirk.

“And my care for you, apparently, is so little that you suspected me of using you, in a vulnerable state, for ‘just’ a one night stand. All I ask is the opportunity to prove that you mean far more to me than that. And if it starts with a sunburn, so be it.” He knew his words were far too serious for the situation, but he was already imagining rubbing that sunburned back into his sheets, and he could hardly do that here, with dogs looking on and dirty dishes on half of the available flat surfaces.

Or he could; he just refused to. It was unfair to force Will to make that call about tonight, without knowing he was doing it, but then, Hannibal was a fan of playing to his advantages, all fairness aside.

“Alright, alright.” Will lifted his hands in a pseudo surrender. “Just let me feed the dogs, and we can go.” He was half laughing, but he paused in the doorway, more than able to brush past Hannibal, but unwilling. “You know, I never thought that. I thought a lot of things, usually that you had realized what a mistake I was, but never that you would use me. You know that, right?”

Hannibal hummed, and slid his fingers into the belt loops of Will’s jeans, using them to pull him against him, their chests brushing. He tipped his head down and stole a kiss from Will, before patting him on his bottom salaciously.

“Get your affairs in order here, then, so I may take you home and lay all of your worries to rest.”

Will licked his lips and gave a jerky, breathless nod. Hannibal followed him out, inspecting the clutter in the living room while Will corralled his pups into the kitchen for food.

He ran his fingers over the tools scattered around Will’s pet project of a boat motor, pleased to see that memory had served him right, and he had found the correct kind for today’s trip. Not, he supposed, that it mattered for anything other than his own edification.

There was an old bag, probably as old as Will, that held several unused tools, and Hannibal lifted one of them, tucked into the outer pocket. The heft on it was wonderful, far outside of the average tool that you could buy today, rusted and weighted and warm with age.

He didn’t turn or react when he heard Will approaching, but he put back the knife he’d had his eyes on. He made himself busy admiring the patina on one of the tools—a ratchet-- that had been left inside the much worn bag.

“They were my dad’s. I don’t… even really know what all of them are for. He was way handier around the house than I am. But working on boats was our thing, and he taught me how to use all of those that apply. I guess I just hang on to the rest out of sentiment.”

Hannibal put it back and turned to look up at Will from the crouch he was in.

“Sentiment is not a bad thing. Are you ready?”

Will nodded.

“I need to grab the fish, but otherwise, yeah. Sorry I can’t bring much else. I don’t rally… stock food.”

“Except for the dogs,” Hannibal pointed out, fond of and exasperated at Will’s inability to care for himself half so well as he did for his little rag tag family.

“Well, sure. Alright, one sec, then we can go.”

He watched Will go back into the kitchen, and found himself pocketing the linoleum knife from the outer pocket of the carpentry bag. It felt too good in his palm to leave it behind, especially when Will wouldn’t notice its absence, didn’t have any linoleum in the house to use it on. Not that Hannibal did, either, but he had other uses for it.

He stood and brushed himself off, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the lake that permeated his clothing, his car… and soon, his house as well. But that could all be cleaned and neutralized. They had made beautiful progress today, and he was more than pleased with it.

Will seemed ready to go, but Hannibal took the cooler back from Will and leaned into him, the smell of the fish hidden by the smell of Will, and his sickness. It wasn’t a bad scent, sort of heady and enticing.

“Perhaps you should pack a bag. In case I choose not to bring you back tonight.” He didn’t kiss him, only nuzzled against the side of his face, allowing his nose to brush Will’s hair.

“Oh, do you want- should I bring my car?” Will wasn’t an idiot, but he was trying so hard to be polite, not to be too hopeful or too forward… he would have to teach him to overcome that. To be more aggressive with what he wanted.

“I’d rather you stay at my house, preferably in my bed, but if you are adverse to that, you can of course bring your vehicle.” He said it calmly, controlling his heart rate even as he felt a soft sweep of arousal at Will’s continued belief that Hannibal didn’t want him. The self loathing was almost palpable, and it was delicious.

“Oh.” Will nearly seemed to breathe the word, but didn’t need to be told twice. He all but ran for the bedroom, appearing a brief moment later with a bag. Hannibal raised an enquiring eyebrow but said nothing, and Will looked apologetic.

“I uh, keep one packed. Never know when Jack is going to show up and tell me to get in a car for a long drive to see some guts and gore crime scene.” He shrugged.

Hannibal walked him back to his car.

“You seem bothered by that—is it the unexpected pull away from your life, or is it what you walk into that is upsetting, do you suppose?” He liked prying into Will’s work with the FBI. If the man himself weren’t as fascinating as humanly possible, his work would be. And good to know about, for the sake of his own hobbies.

“I… both. I hate feeling like I’m in storage. Like my life is just a shelf that Jack sits me on until he needs to pull me down and use me again. And I hate… most of the crimes are just sloppy, rough. There’s no…” Will bit it off as Hannibal started he car and began pulling out.

“No what, Will? Most of the crimes are sloppy, but what are those that aren’t?”

“The ripper.” Will whispered. He seemed to zone out for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Jack thinks I’m going to be able to hand him the Chesapeake Ripper, and I know that’s not the case. He’s too far from me, I can’t see him. He isn’t the others. They’re… they’re flawed, their thinking has some common base thread, and I feel like. God, this must sound ridiculous. I’m sorry.” Hannibal had to fight to keep his grip on the steering wheel casual, keep his heart rate normal.

“There is nothing ridiculous about it. You can tell me. Please.” He gestured with his hand that Will should continue, and all but held his breath, hoping that he would.

“He’s an artist with what he does. I’m not saying he’s right. But I don’t know… I don’t know anything about him. How he chooses them or what he looks for, what he does with the trophies… but what he leaves behind are… they’re elevated parodies. Like he’s mocking the others, baiting me, and celebrating his own genius, all in one. I don’t know. Part of me wants to be impressed with him. A lot of me, actually. And I know that’s what he wants. But I don’t know how to tell him that… that I appreciate the artistry. Even if the medium is…” He trailed off, searched what he could see of Hannibal’s carefully maintained poker face, before continuing.

“Yeah, I sound like a crazy person. I… I still want to catch him. I’m not saying he isn’t guilty, shouldn’t be stopped. Or that I would ever do it. But. There’s just, something beautiful about it. His mind does something others’ don’t. Even Elliot Buddhish, with his angels, didn’t manage to elevate his victims the way the Ripper does. He sees them as… as swine, and worse. And he makes them into art.”  There’s something awestruck in Will’s voice, but something bitter, too. He loves it, loves the crimes, but hates himself for it. And that’s what draws Hannibal to him.

He wished he weren’t driving, so that he could close his eyes and take in the nuances of Will’s words, the passion that lay just below the surface, the way his breathing caught as his mind supplied the visuals of the Ripper’s victims. His victims.

“What is it that makes them art? What makes them more than just window displays at the mall?” He asked, prodding for more. He loved this, like a massage for his ego, and he hungered for it.

“You mean aside from the human lives taken to create them?” Will released one of his self deprecating chuckles. “There’s care. And there’s… talent. He’s doesn’t just have surgical knowledge, he’s a master of it. I’ve wondered if he might be some kind of aesthetic surgeon, with how careful and clean everything he does is, but I think he’d find that line of work offensive. Not powerful enough, not demanding enough… he needs both, because he is both, and whatever he does has to be worth his time or he would hate it, and I think we’d have a lot more bodies on our hands. Or not. I think he also has huge amounts of impulse control. Every kill he does is thought out, planned. Careful and layered with meaning. And executed flawlessly.” Will shook his head.

“Is it more than one person, do you suppose? No one can be that good, that powerful and be only one man. Can they?” He liked this game. Will was intelligent, insightful, but ultimately blind.

“There are people—not a lot, but some—who work hard enough to become virtuosos.  The real question for me is where did he spend his years training for this? Because we usually manage to catch killers before they reach these levels of sophistication and caution. But somehow, he’s evaded us long enough to become the best. And that’s what he is. He’s the best. And that’s why I know I won’t catch him. I’m not good enough for him to let me. I don’t deserve to. I don’t know if anyone ever will be.”

“If anyone does, it may well be you.” Hannibal found himself saying softly. The words surprised him with how true they were.

-*-

He wasn’t a five star chef, the way Hannibal was. His dinner was fried and probably unhealthy as sin, but Hannibal didn’t seem to object to it, or, if he did, he was too polite to say so.

He felt bad about the grease splatter on Hannibal’s gorgeous counters, and he actually insisted on cleaning up after himself. To the point where Hannibal— _Hannibal_ backed down.

And maybe he could tell that his insistence was partially to delay… having actual sex, without the presence of drugs and trauma and, actually, you know, having to make that choice without being able to blame it on anything afterwards. Not that he did; he knew what he was doing. He knows what he’s doing now. But. Circumstances were different, and he was… anxious? Nervous? Worried that he’d fuck it up. All of the above. So he took it out on the sponge, while Hannibal cleaned the dishes and put them on drying racks and into cupboards, respectively.

He turned from the stove to see Hannibal wiping down the table, and marveled for a moment at his back, muscular and toned and beautiful under his shirt, this new one green. He’d insisted on changing before dinner, and that was fine with Will. He liked Hannibal in his dark comfortable earth tones. The white seemed wrong, knowing where the night was headed. As Hannibal leaned in to wipe down the rest of it, Will felt his eyes drawn to his hips, and couldn’t help but think it wouldn’t be long now before they would twist and dip and thrust into him…

He pulled his attention away and moved to cleaning the cutting board. He lifted it to the sink, amazed at how thick it was, really more like a few inches of solid wood, but in a checker pattern of different hues. He cleaned it with soap and water and dried it off, then set it aside back where it belonged, careful to put it down gently on the tiny rubber feet, not wanting to break the companionable silence with a loud noise.

He turned and felt his heart leap into his throat when Hannibal was there, right behind him. He actually ran into his chest with a whooshing sound, as some air was knocked out of him.

“Apologies, Will. I was just coming to show you how to oil the butcher block, once it’s cleaned.”

“Oil it?” he repeated dumbly, adjusting to Hannibal’s closeness and his lack of space to move away. Hannibal turned him around, so that he was nearly pressed against the counter, the spin making him disoriented, before he felt Hannibal crowding into his back, his heat and hardness making a firm line behind him. Will willed himself to relax and sank back into it, while Hannibal lifted a small bottle of clear liquid that Will hadn’t noticed before.

He poured a generous amount onto the board, then pressed his palm into it. He began rubbing in small circles, the movement of his arm jostling Will’s shoulder.

“Mineral oil.” He explained, while Will tried not to react, tried not to notice his own growing hardness pressing into the counter in front of him. “Keeps the wood from drying out and cracking.”

“Mm.” Was all will managed, an interested sounding grunt, because words were a bit out of his range right now. Hannibal’s hips shifted, rubbing into Will from behind and rubbing his clothed cock against the cabinet. Will leaned into it, pushing his ass back into the friction Hannibal was building, and bringing his chest closer to the cutting board.

He watched as Hannibal’s fingers shone with the oil, and the dark stain of it spread across the board.

Hannibal’s clean hand drifted down, and found the front of Will’s pants, making quick work of unbuttoning them, despite it not being his dominant hand. He wanted to help, but his hands were forced flat on the counter top and he knew if he removed them, he would be sent sprawling onto the cutting board, and the process of cleaning it and oiling it would have to start all over again.

Once his pants had been tugged down and dropped to his legs, Hannibal lifted his wet fingers, and poured a little more oil directly onto them.

“Mineral oil has other uses, as well. As a laxative, when ingested or used as an enema… but you’re probably more interested in it as a lubricant. Hmm?” He slid his hand down the back of his boxers, and Will shuddered as the slick fingers began circling his asshole.

“I ah.” He mangled the words, so he gave up and just panted out a garbled “Uunh huh.” It was punctuated with the first inch of Hannibal’s middle finger piercing him, careful, gentle, but a continuous pressure, urging its way deeper into him. Hannibal moved his hips so that he could press himself against Will’s side, reminding him of what was eventually going in, how much he had to loosen up before then.

“It lasts longer than water based lubricants, because it is not as easily absorbed through the skin. But it is a light oil, without as much greasy residue as many others. Unfortunately, it causes the break down of plastics and rubbers. One mustn’t combine it with toys. No dildos, or vibrators…” He was lowering his voice as he spoke, and the final words were directly into Will’s ear, and nearly a rumble, while he slid his second finger in. “No prophylactics.”

Will moaned at that, and used his arms to push himself back onto Hannibal’s hand.

“Hannibal, please.” Somehow his voice was steady and silently gave a little prayer of thanks for that.

“Please what, Will? What do you want?” Hannibal was baiting him, he knew it, but it was still so damn hot.

“Please fuck me.” He managed not to sound desperate. He was proud of that, glad, now that it had begun, glad that Hannibal wasn’t trying to force him to look him in the eyes. It would have been too much. He shuddered and gasped as Hannibal’s scissoring fingers struck upon his prostate, and he lurched forward, into the cabinet.

“I’m going to. I promise. But not yet. And not in my kitchen.”

Will moaned in protest when Hannibal abruptly withdrew his fingers and washed his hands, but when Will turned around, he found the bottle of mineral oil thrust into his grasp.

“Go sit on the leather ottoman and open yourself further. I want you quivering for me when I join you.” Numbly, he followed the instructions, a little afraid, a little humiliated at the thought, but overbearingly aroused, to the point where he didn’t really care too much. This was Hannibal. He wouldn’t hurt him. He left his clothes where the fell, stripping himself down on the way out into the den.

He spread his legs open as far as he could, across the ottoman… so far that his groin muscles protested. He had to lean back, then to get his fingers inside of himself, but there wasn’t really enough space on the ottoman for that, so he ended up tensing his lower stomach muscles like he was doing crunches, and that, in turn, tensed his butt, until he couldn’t get even one finger in. He tried holding himself up with one hand on the floor, but it felt so unnatural and contorted, he couldn’t imagine that it would look good. He just felt silly.

He rolled onto his side, left arm curving around the ottoman, and his legs in a careless sort of tangle that didn’t give the best view of his hand, working between his legs behind him, but when Hannibal walked in, his cock, hard and ready, would be on prime display.

He hadn’t counted on Hannibal catching his eyes instead, and drawing in from there. He crossed to him and took a firm hold on his jaw, turning his face up for a kiss. Will stopped his movements, the three fingers he’d managed to get in, even at this awkward angle, completely still. He felt frustrated by how inept he was at this, how very much better Hannibal’s hands felt, like there was inherent talent in those fingers that Will would never be able to achieve.

Hannibal broke the kiss, and Will saw another bottle, this one the familiar dark brown and white of rubbing alcohol. He winced a little at the idea of applying that to his butt, and momentarily thought that perhaps Hannibal meant to clean him out with it, before he would fuck him without a condom, like he’d begged the last time.

But Hannibal also had a soft washcloth, and was pouring the rubbing alcohol onto it.

“Please, don’t stop on my account.” Hannibal crooned, and began bathing Will’s forehead with the alcohol. He shivered as the heat in his head faded and was replaced with a chill.

“What are you--” He cut himself off with a particularly useless and brutal dig into his own hole. A grunt closer to the pain side of the scale came out instead.

“Gentle, gentle. Touch yourself the way I would.” Hannibal instructed, coming around to the other side of him, to watch his progress.

His hand fell on Will’s, and he began guiding the digits, teaching Will to rotate his wrist just a little, to stroke rather than jab. And then his hand was gone.

“The rubbing alcohol helps relieve the burns. It dissipates at room temperature, so skin temperature makes it go even faster, and it lifts some of the heat out with it.”

“Is now really the time? I mean, my sunburn will be fine until after--” Will choked when Hannibal made his hand into a claw and ran his nails down the sensitive skin of Will’s back.

“I wanted to do at least a little before I lay you out on your back, and screw you into the carpet.” Hannibal was using base words again, being cavalier and blasé about sex, and it was so ridiculously arousing. “But you did say you enjoyed a little pain along with sex, didn’t you. Is that true?”

“I… _please_?” This time he did sound desperate.

“On the carpet. On your back.” Hannibal’s words were sharp, not from anger, there was no heat behind them, and no anger on his face. Just lust. Lust that made things foggy and thick, and Hannibal’s self control was trying to keep everything normalized. So Will could feel safe. But he couldn’t stay unaffected so he snapped.

Will understood all of this in a bare instant, just from looking up into Hannibal’s face.

And then he was on his back on the expensive looking area rug. He sucked in air between his teeth when his skin made contact with it.

“That’s what I thought. Good boy.” Hannibal undid his own slacks and pulled himself through, obviously not planning to undress further.

The thought made him feel vulnerable, which somehow, in his mind, translated into ‘more aroused than ever’.

At the first thrust, Hannibal found his prostate unerringly, while he sent him several inches backwards along the carpet. Will whimpered and squirmed, and Hannibal put his palms flat in the space above his shoulders. Will wrapped his hands around Hannibal’s wrists, trying to ground himself.

The pain on his back was delicious as he dragged back and forth over the carpet in time with Hannibal’s thrusts and withdrawals. He nearly screamed when Hannibal changed his angle and bore down into Will with all of his weight.

It was messy, and Will couldn’t figure out what to do with his legs. He bent them at the knee and rested his feet on the ground, trying to ignore as they shook and his head began to spin.

“You’re… you’re so deep.” He didn’t have any filters, didn’t think before he spoke, and Hannibal’s mouth curled into the most sarcastic, borderline sadistic looking smile Will had ever seen on any face, let alone the mild Doctor Lecter’s.

“Mm, yes, and how does that make you feel?” He prompted, the words a striking parody to his work, to their conversations in his office. That seemed a world away though, and this Hannibal seemed like a different man.

He met this Hannibal’s eyes, mouth working in a wordless plea. Hannibal seemed to understand, speeding his thrusts and moving his grip in order to actually pull Will onto him, like he weighed nothing, and had no purpose other than this. He liked that, liked feeling like he was allowed to let go of his brilliant anomaly of a mind, his responsibilities. He could just be this. He arched into Hannibal’s thrusts, and  squirmed again, rubbing his back against the floor.

“Wanted.” Will whispered, the word a harsh counterpoint to the rushes of air coming out of Hannibal’s mouth. “Full and… and allowed to be purposeless.” Will pressed on. He weighed the final word, then let it roll out of his mouth, regardless of how much he worried Hannibal might find it distasteful. It felt good to him; felt right. “Loved.”

Hannibal responded with one final, particularly strong thrust, then a shudder, and Will called out his name when he felt Hannibal spill inside of him, the warmth and wetness washing over him, inside of him. It was like a blanket for the parts of him that people couldn’t usually reach. Not his organs, his insides… but his soul. It was like Hannibal was making a point of proving that he had one, that he could see it. And if someone like Hannibal could want this… with _him…_

Will shuddered through his own orgasm after that, clinging to Hannibal’s arms while his hands found Will’s hair and combed through it. He came slowly back to himself, his body cataloguing a host of aches, from the stretch where Hannibal was still inside of him, to the rug burn on top of his sunburn, to the spot where he’d scratched his shin, diving after Hannibal into the water, that day.

“You are.” Hannibal assured him, voice sudden and unexpected in the post coital silence, and Will froze, searching for context, then pulled Hannibal down on top of him with the strength of his arms alone once he realized. Wanted. Full and allowed to be purposeless. Loved.

“You too Hannibal. I… you too.” He hoped Hannibal heard him; all he heard was his heart pounding in his ears.

-*-

Hannibal smirked and settled Will into his bed. He placed the linoleum knife in his briefcase, to be transported to the office. He knew already that he would be keeping it in the drawer on top of his drawings. It was a good weight for that.

He retrieved Will’s scattered clothing from throughout his house, and put it in a neatly folded pile on the bench at the foot of the bed.

He settled himself in, wrapping a possessive arm around this young man who he’d taken as a lover, as a patient.

He wasn’t yet what he would be, but the becoming was coming along just fine.

When the nightmares struck, he held dear Will and stroked his hair, helping him through them with simple physical comfort. And when he woke from it, he may have been startled at first, but what followed was gratitude, and comfort, and he fell back asleep soon after, without ever having broken a sweat.

“Told you you’d be there to pull me out of the water.” Were his last murmured words before he drifted off.

Clearly, the visit to the lake was well worth it.

 Will was wrapped firmly around his finger. Just where he wanted him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and likely final installment of the Warmth series. Thank you so much for reading, and for the kind words of all of those who have reviewed and left comments along the way.
> 
> If you would like updates on future stories, or just want to hang out and say hi, feel free to follow me at MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


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